


Defiance and Deception

by SilverDust09



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Adultery, Aerys chokes on a cup of wine, Cuckloading, F/M, I was on my period when I wrote this, Lyanna kinda does her duty, No Rebellion, Not very favourable towards Robert, One Shot, R Plus L Equals J, Rhaegar is King, Robert thinks Jon is his kid, Suicide (Lysa), angsty, flawed Lyanna
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-11
Updated: 2019-06-11
Packaged: 2020-04-24 20:36:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,874
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19180933
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SilverDust09/pseuds/SilverDust09





	Defiance and Deception

The day her waters broke, Lyanna had dreamed of Rhaegar and the Island of Faces, the bleeding faces of the weirwood trees keeping watch over them as they had coupled on the wet grass.

When he had found her strip off her armor she had threatened him with a knife, though she had stopped the moment she had realized who he was.

Any normal Prince would have punished her or at least demanded an apology, but Rhaegar had only chuckled.

_So you are the Knight of the Laughing Tree_ , he had said. _I expected a fearless squire, but instead I found a beautiful maid with an even braver heart._

Lyanna had been completely taken back by his words and fled from him, his amused laughter echoing after her.

The same night he had sought her out, asking her for a dance while her betrothed had fallen asleep in a puddle of his own snot after taking part in a drinking competition with Ser Richard Lonmouth.

She had never liked dancing, especially not with self-important Princelings, but that night she had learned that Rhaegar was far from self- important.

He danced with her only once, before kindly assuring her that his father would not hear a word from his lips about her mummery. The only thing he had asked of her was that perfectly horrid shield Benjen had painted for her.

Lyanna had sent Benjen to hand it over on the same night and had expected this to be the last time she would see him.

Yet on the very next day, while she had been roaming through the ruins of Harrenhall he had found her again, his harp in hand.

_I noticed that you like sad songs, my lady_ , he had remarked with a shy smile.

That is what she had liked about him the most. His quiet and shy nature.

Robert was boasting and loud, always demanding attention for himself.

Rhaegar had been different. There was a calmness about him that had made it easy for him to listen to her for hours as she had told him about her home.

In return he had told her stories about his forbearers and had offered to play for her on his harp, though this time Lyanna had asked for happy ones.

He had even played the Dornishman’s wife for her, a song he admittedly disliked.

That night he had kissed her, his lips soft and sweetened by the honey he had put into his wine.

Lyanna had always considered herself made of ice, but Rhaegar had woken a fire in her and mayhaps she had done the same with him.

She should feel ashamed, but on the very next day she had given her maidenhead to him beneath one of the hundreds weirwood trees he had shown her at the Island of Faces.

She might have called it a silly mistake if she had done it only once, but she had done it a second, a third and a fourth time. _Like rutting dogs_ , Brandon had once described his lovemaking with Lady Barbrey to one of his drinking companions.

The description had fitted Lyanna much more. Truly, she should have felt ashamed, but the excitement she had felt in that moment had been exhilarating.

It had been her way to rebel against her father, who saw her as nothing more than a vessel to receive Robert Baratheon’s seed and pup him babes. It had also been her way to rebel against her treacherous brother Ned, who had been the source of Robert’s misguided infatuation.

Yet all this exhilaration had died in her chest when Rhaegar had crowned her Queen of Love and Beauty.

Brandon’s rage had been terrible to behold, though that didn’t mean he had scared her. Robert had scared her even less, but the words he had given her that night had angered her greatly.

_Your father promised me that you would be mine. You will do as I please._

And yet, as much as her heart rebelled against him, she hadn’t run away with Rhaegar as he had offered her.

The gods must have taken offence at her willfulness for two days before her brother’s wedding the most grievous news had reached them.

The Princess Elia had miscarried Rhaegar’s heir in a bed of blood.

The news had shaken her so much that she had abandoned all plans and had remained closed up in her chamber in Riverrun, weeping herself to sleep as her heart had clenched with guilt.

The same night she had tried to burn his crown, but in the end she kept a single flower as a memory.

She took no pleasure in Brandon’s wedding. She did not dance, but kept Hoster Tully’s weeping daughter company.

She too had a bleeding heart to nurse or so Lyanna had found out after the girl had confided her secrets to her over a cup of wine.

She had fallen for her father’s ward, had bedded him and had found herself with child, something her father had found out sooner after.

As expected, he had taken measures. He had asked one of her maids to put moon tea into Lady Lysa’s tea. For three days she had bled and had lost her babe.

Lyanna had listened to her and had kissed her tears away, promising her that her father would find her a good man.

It had been the only words she had found to nurse the girl’s bleeding heart, but it had been no use.

On the next day, they had fished her corpse from the Tumblestone.

Even Lyanna had shuddered at the sight and had locked herself away until she forgot the sight of her pale face and those dead eyes staring back at her.

Yet that had not been the only reason she had locked herself away from prying eyes.

The week before she had started to fill sick and her breasts had grown too tender to be touched.

She had denied the truth to herself until they had found Lady Lysa’s dead body, but by then her moonblood had been missing for nearly one moon, which was a more than uncommon occurrence. Her moonblood had never failed her before.

For three days, she had mulled over the matter, before she came to an unpleasant decision.

She drank three cups of cider that night, before she had slipped into Robert Baratheon’s chambers.

He had been horribly drunk and stank of wine, but he had been eager enough. She had still emptied her stomach afterwards and had cleaned herself three times.

He must have taken her sudden enthusiasm as sign of her undying love, for on the next day he wed her in the Sept of Riverrun, thus fulfilling her father’s ambitions and saving himself several hundred gold coins.

The only one who had been pleased by this, so she had learned later, was Lord Stannis, who had long started to worry about Robert’s wastefulness.

Feeling the strong kick of the little dragon pup inside her she had crawled out of bed and had called for Maester Cressen, who would have probably missed the birth had one of the guards not carried him up the many stairs of Storm’s End.

By the time the Maester Cressen had reached her, Lyanna’s babe had been crowning, the roaring storm outside whipping in her ears as salty tears had rolled down her cheeks.

It had been a painful, but quick birth.

When they had laid her babe in her arms he had given a lusty cry, his head deeply flushed.

In that moment she had felt utter relief, for that boy of hers had taken after her. His mob of brown hair and the slope of her nose were all hers, though his eyes, dark and slightly purple had come from his father.

She had half expected Robert to remark upon it, as he had never held much love for his Targaryen kin, but instead he had strutted around like a proud rooster, patting himself on the back for a deed well done, before embarking on a Great Hunt.

Not long after, Lyanna fell sick. Birthing fever, which kept her to bed for nearly three days.

Hadn’t it been for old Cressen’s herbal teas and cold baths, the fever would have surely taken her from this world.

When she was back to health, she had kissed the old man’s cheek and had thanked him for his effort, despite the sad news he had given her afterwards.

_I do not think it is likely you will ever conceive again, my lady._

Lyanna had been stunned, but much to her shame, she hadn’t felt sad not to bear another child.

She had a perfect babe. Why would she need another?

Robert had been less pleased and had even shouted at the old man, making Renly cry. It had taken Lord Stannis and a guardsman to restrain him.

“Are you sure?” he had asked old Cressen about a hundred times. “Or is it only an assumption?”

“Not an assumption,” the old maester had given him the hard truth, despite Robert’s rage. “But my lifelong experience as a maester, my lord.”

Robert had eventually let go of him and had promptly embarked on another hunt with his horde of drinking companions.

Lyanna hadn’t cared. It was a shameful thing to admit, but she had wed him for one thing only: to protect her babe from certain death.

And yet she felt the sharp sting of guilt.

Restless and kept awake by the raging storms so common to Storm’s End, she had picked her babe from his crib and had carried him to the godswood.

There she had named him in front of her gods after sprinkling water over his head. It hadn’t been a true weirwood tree, but the gods must have heard her plea, for on the next day she heard the most pleasant news.

The Mad King was dead. He had choked on a cup of summerwine or so the rumors said, though nobody seemed to care or grieve for him.

Lyanna had felt happiness on behalf of Rhaegar. He had hated his father with burning passion.

And now he was King. She only hoped he would be a good one, for she had sacrificed her happiness for him.

Perhaps it was also a comfort for his Princess, who had been rumored to be barren since she had lost her babe.

Lyanna for once was glad that she had spurned the thorny crown Rhaegar had wanted to give her.

Even Robert eventually returned, less drunk and with an apology on his lips.

 Lyanna couldn’t bring herself to care, but she forced a smile over her lips. For the babe’s sake.

“Jon is a good name,” Robert grumbled when she informed him about her choice. “Jon will be honored.”

With Jon he had meant Jon Arryn, though Lyanna couldn’t have cared less about him.

Her babe hadn’t been named after the ailing Lord of the Vale, but for a King. A King of Winter.

And yet, she had also chosen another name for the babe, a name she had only whispered to herself.

Duncan, for the sad song Rhaegar had played for her at Harrenhall.

…


End file.
